The Tragedy of Denial
by Light Under My Skin
Summary: This is a story about a first kiss, but be warned. There is nothing romantic about it; there is simply him and her. This is their story – their tragedy. Written for HPFC "First Kiss" Challenge.


HPFC Challenge: "First Kiss Challenge" : Ginny and Draco fanon pairing.

Summary: This is a story about a first kiss, but be warned. There is nothing romantic about it; there is simply him and her. This is their story – their tragedy.

xoxoxoxoxoxo

This is a story about a first kiss, but be warned. If you want romance and Madam Puddifoots, this story is not for you. Indeed, if you want anger but eventual love, this story is not for you either. In fact, this story is not for anyone, because it does not begin happily, nor does it end that way.

There is nothing at all romantic about it. There are no blushing schoolchildren, no tentative smiles, no awkward silences. There is no date, no hand-holding, no dinner and a movie.

There is simply him and her, their passion, their lust, and their fury.

This is their story - their tragedy.

Take it or leave it.

xoxoxoxoxoxo

His eyes were drawn to her, even when he was walking away from her. He'd find ways to sneak peeks at her, to glance at her as he turned the corner – just a glimpse really, out of the corner of his eye.

(Now, I know what you're thinking. A love struck boy, pining after a beautiful girl, stuck to hiding in the shadows because of some mixture of teenage awkwardness and uncertainty.

But you're wrong – pay attention.)

His eyes followed her form, wherever she was, not because of love but because of the exact opposite: hate. He made a point of knowing where she was at all times because, as his father liked to say, "keep your friends close and your enemies closer." So, with the old adage in mind, he never let a second pass without knowing where she was.

He didn't even think about it really. It was just what he did: watch her. In all reality, she wasn't even his worst enemy, it wasn't she who he loathed, despised, abhorred to the point of insanity really. It wasn't her - it was her boyfriend. Yet he'd still watch her, see her as he turned the corners, catch sight of her bright red hair as he entered the Great Hall. It was probably just because she was easier to spot. He didn't think about it beyond that - the subject was so boring that he feared putting himself to sleep.

Actually, he didn't know why he'd ever think about it. It's not like she was anything special, after all.

(Again you go with our thinking! I know you reader, know that you have gone all love-struck, imagining his denial, his actual love for her. I can just picture you now, dreaming of their perfect, happy ending.

Well, that's not going to happen. This is their story – so butt out.)

Anyways, he didn't see what was so special about her hair anyways. She'd always get complimented, and worse, _he_ was always touching it, running his fingers though it, picking at a strand, staring at it. Please - it's not spun gold, it's just hair! And besides, he didn't see what the hubbub was about anyways. It didn't light her face up, didn't accent her eyes, didn't shine brighter than the hundreds of candles hanging in the Great Hall. In fact, if he were to be perfectly candid (which, to be clear, he always was) her hair only made her skin look more pallid – almost sickly – and it hung limp, lacking any of the luminescence of candlelight. In fact, the few times he'd seen her hair shine, he'd been sure it was a trick of the light, and not some special, unique gift that she possessed.

The idea alone was preposterous.

She turned the corner, reminding him of her presence, that she was alive. She made a point in never letting him forget it – her life – and it was almost as if she knew he was there, on the edges, watching, though he'd made sure no one had ever caught him.

On a whim, he followed her, always a hallway or two behind, always cutting through fake walls, taking moving staircase – anything to end up ahead. And then he hid again, letting her pass obliviously, before chasing her once more.

This was his game, and he'd gotten quite good at it, over the years. He didn't even have to watch her turn the corner to know where she'd go next, though oftentimes he did watch her. He delighted in noticing her flaws, in pinpointing her weaknesses, and it was quite humorous to see her walk, as if she was strutting down a catwalk. Her butt swayed with her feet, and though he knew she was trying to be sexy, no emotion was elicited from him, not in the slightest. It wasn't sensuous, the way she'd move, totally in control of her own body, in fact, he'd seen many other girls do the same thing - with much better results. Of course, his eyes did still stray to… those parts of her backside, though it had nothing to do with lust or arousal, he only watched her to get a laugh.

As he raced by another hallway, and climbed some more stairs, passing in front of the Gryffindor common room, he couldn't help but feel that she didn't belong there. Gryffindor certainly hadn't made a wise decision, claiming the redhead as it's own. She wasn't brave in the slightest, and she certainly did not stand up for what she believed in. He'd never seen her stand up to someone stronger than herself, or fight valiantly in the face of bitter odds. He'd never even see her _think_ for herself – all she did was go along with what others thought for her. She wasn't brave or loyal or anything, he'd seen her say bad things about just about anyone she knew – name anyone, he had plenty of examples. Besides, he thought to himself, as he dashed off to her next destination, Slytherin would be a much better house for her.

Save for that fact that he'd have to spend time with her, of course.

When he reached the corridor he'd thought she would be in, he was astonished to find that she was not there. Call him what you like (ego-centric would do just fine) but he was hardly ever wrong. Since he'd started this game, he'd only missed her three times, and on all occasions she'd been in a broom closet somewhere, snogging her boyfriend, that insufferable prat they were calling "The Chosen One."

Of course, that feeling did not ignite rage in his chest, it did not cause his insides to squirm, nor did it draw his hands into a fist. In fact, the only reason he was clenching his teeth right now was because of the disgusting image that had just popped into his head.

"Dra-Malfoy?" she said from behind him, startling him immensely. In that second of unexpectedness, his heart did not race, he did not yearn to turn around, he did not, _in the slightest_, care that she'd said his name.

He knew others would be coming down this corridor eventually – it was a common corridor, there were two popular broom closets accessible from this corridor, and it was the disgust and fear if being seen with her, and _only_ this emotion, that prompted him to roughly take her hand, dragging her away from that open space and pressing her into the small, cramped area that is an alcove.

"Draco!" she exclaimed as he moved her powerfully. It didn't make his insides stir, to hear her say his name so passionately. Indeed, the feeling he had, spreading throughout his chest, was nothing more than worry that he'd be caught in a position such as this with Ginny Weasely.

After all, he couldn't _imagine_ the humiliation he'd have to endure if someone got the wrong idea.

"Weasely" he said to her, and there was nothing in his voice, nothing but the hatred and rage that he felt towards her. His breath only caught at the end because… He was out of breath from his hatred for her, yes that was it.

Again, he was reminded of her absolute lack of individuality when she just stood there, without fighting him, letting him trap her against the wall. She didn't feel good in his arms, under his body, and he didn't have the urge to lean in closer to her – that would be absurd. Why, the only reason his body did start inching towards her, pressing her more firmly against the wall (and not caring in the slightest that his movement also brought her body flush with his own) was because she wasn't squirming enough, and he was worried that she might escape.

She couldn't escape, he hadn't… insulted her yet.

"You know Draco," she drawled, not looking uncomfortable in the slightest, pressed against a man that wasn't her boyfriend, "the Hogwarts walls are quite cold, so if you'll get on with it…"

He glared at her, his throat tightening. Tightening out of anger, of course, not because she'd called him "Draco". That didn't matter to him at all, and nor did the way she'd said his name. Why, she hadn't said it alluringly at all. Hundreds of girls had said his name, and all in the same, boring old way.

"Missing your boyfriend already?" he spat at her. In that moment, all of his anger, his hatred at her, for all her imperfections, for all that she represented to others, to the world – to him – came crashing down upon him, and Draco was faced with the undeniable realization that he'd burst with it all soon.

"Jealous?" she said, and in her eyes, in her hair, in her Gryffindor bravery and her refusal to back down, it was everything: an insult, a challenge, and an invitation, and it simply washed Draco away.

(Not that he'd been trying too hard to resist the current in the first place.)

His lips, so different from Harry's, came crashing down on hers, taking everything, giving her nothing. He attacked her for her beauty, for her allure, for her power and bravery and her dedication. He prepared to destroy her, there against that wall, finally after so many arduous years of painful patience, but he was surprised to find that he was sorely mistaken.

Instead of fighting against him, instead of smashing his chest and biting his lips, Ginny Weasley attacked Draco Malfoy back, full force. Her lips molested his, taking from him just as much as he pried from her.

There was nothing romantic about it. There were no blushing schoolchildren, no tentative smiles, no awkward silences. There was no date, no hand-holding, no dinner and a movie.

There was simply him and her, their passion, their lust, and their fury.


End file.
